Sit At The Table With Me (Destiny)
by ShadowedSoulSpirit
Summary: After the events of Part 5, Mista and Giorno continued living their lives. However, Mista was suddenly hit by a stand on one of their excursions, and he was able to sit at a table with the old gang once again. Based off the song Destiny by Neffex. Obviously spoiler heavy.


**Sit At The Table With Me (Destiny)**

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**A Jojo oneshot.**

**Summary: After the events of Part 5, Mista and Giorno continued living their lives. However, Mista was suddenly hit by a stand on one of their excursions, and he was able to sit at a table with the old gang once again. Based off the song Destiny by Neffex.**

**Warning: Rated T for cursing and strong themes.**

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And Mista began to dream.

A dream of how things were_ supposed_ to be.

_I don't believe in destiny. I just do what's best for me_.

"Five slices of cake." Mista sighed happily and pressed his fingers into the white tablecloth. "Not four, as it should be."

_They _were all together again, secured in the soft light of Libeccio at their secluded table. Fugo read from a textbook about as thick as Mista's skull; Bucciarati cocked his ankle to rest on his knee and pinched a wineglass stem between his fingers; Narancia stuffed his face with spoons full of pasta; and Abbacchio was lost in thought, his headphones secured over his ears.

Just as it should be.

"You're still going on about that?" Narancia said with his mouth full of red sauce.

Fugo grabbed a fork warningly and jabbed it in Narancia's direction. "Don't talk with your mouth full. It isn't polite."

"Of course I'm going on about it!" Mista said. "How many times do I have to tell you four is a bad number?"

_There were four slices of cake that day, weren't there? _The gunslinger realized as he studied the strawberry cake on the glass plate at the table. _The day that Giorno…_

But that wasn't how things were supposed to be. They were members of Passione, operating to make Bucciarati an important man one day, a capo. That was all. Nothing more to the script.

_Don't listen to the enemy._

"Be quiet, Mista," Abbacchio warned and lifted a glass of water to his purple lips.

Bucciarati smiled at them with amusement in his eyes, and Mista felt pride wash over him. Pride for his leader. Pride for their group. _But Bucciarati wasn't there, was he?_

The pride morphed into something else. Fear? No, it couldn't be. It pulsated in the base of Mista's skull like a bad headache after listening to the Pistols bicker. Something felt wrong.

But it felt entirely right, too.

"Anyone want a piece of cake?" Mista asked, dived his fork into the closest slice, and scooted it off onto his plate.

"Save one for me," Bucciarati said.

"Me too!" Narancia said, and this time, he got the fork to his shoulder.

"You have to finish your food and then you get dessert!" Fugo declared, and Narancia whipped out his switchblade. The two argued heatedly, and Abbacchio took the opportunity to slide the remaining four slices over to himself and sat one slice to the side for their beloved boss.

And Mista laughed. It was just like the old days. But when did they become old?

"_Mista!"_

Mista's fork hovered over the fluffy goodness like a dive bomber searching for its target. His head throbbed sharply, and he let his fork clatter to the plate as he pressed his palm to his eye.

_They're just full of jealousy. _

"Mista." Bucciarati lowered his glass carefully, his voice tinted in worry. "Are you all right...?"

No, he wanted to say. His head hurt and something felt wrong, inherently wrong about this dinner, about these people. But then again, it was how things _should_ be. How Mista wanted them to be. When he finally lowered his hand, he lifted his eyes from the white tablecloth.

Giorno stared back at him.

His lips moved in a soundless scream. _"Mista!"_

Mista quickly shook his head, and the image vanished without even a hint of smoke. Was he hallucinating? Was it a stand?

Bucciarati leaned forward in his seat and studied Mista intently.

"Mista, are you sure?" he asked.

_I'm worrying him, _Mista thought. _Stop being a dumbass! _He grinned and scooped up his silverware.

"I'm all right, Bucciarati," he said and pierced the cake. "No need to worry. I'm just tired."

"Or drunk," Abbacchio added and lazily picked at the strawberries on top of the cake.

Mista dropped his fork again, but this time from shock. "I didn't drink that much wine!"

The corner's of Abbacchio's mouth quirked into a thin smile. It was rare that he ever smiled.

"I'm sorry, Fugo," Narancia sighed and slipped his switchblade into his pocket. "You're right, I should have waited."

"No, I'm sorry," Fugo said, carefully putting a bandage over the fork-inflicted wound. "I should have controlled my temper."

And it was rarer that either of them apologized.

_They say I'm way too obsessed. _

But it was perfect. How things were supposed to be.

"_Mista, please!"_

Mista's head throbbed harder this time, and a shrill sound rang so heavily it sounded like he had pressed his ear to a church bell. It drowned out the voices of Libeccio, and replaced it with the sound of waves crashing, of heavy breathing, of Giorno—

No. He didn't know Giorno. When he had the four slices of cake, _that's _when Giorno came. That's when everything changed.

But things have already changed.

Mista's eyes traced each of their faces; Bucciarati; Abbacchio; Fugo and Narancia. And his eyes drifted to the last, non-existence seat, to the green eyes that expressed the world and all its hope to Mista.

"_Mista, please." _Giorno reached across the table and grabbed his hand. _"Come back."_

None of the others seemed to notice, didn't comprehend the change that took place. Mista looked at the melting globs of white running down the side of the cake. Four. There should have been four slices. Not five.

_It must be a stand, _he thought, but nothing more came from that. So what if it was? This was what he wanted, right? But when he looked into Giorno's pleading eyes, he remembered.

He remembered it all.

The day Giorno came into Mista's life. The escape with Trish. The train rides and plane rides and times they traversed the world on the boat. The betrayal. The Colosseum. _Giorno. _

_And I've got nothing left. _

Suddenly, Mista wretched his hand away.

When he did, Giorno Giovanna disappeared into a wisp of gold.

_And I'm not quite there yet. _

He could pretend he never saw him; pretend there wasn't a throbbing in his head. Pretend this was the way things were supposed to be.

But they weren't.

_But those words they'll regret. _

Mista grabbed the rim of his plate and threw it like a frisbee across the room. It shattered loudly, and all four heads swiveled to look at him.

"This isn't real," Mista said, through gritted teeth, even though his body screamed _yes, this is real! This is real!_

"What do you mean, Mista?" Narancia cocked his head.

Another throb pounded Mista's head, and he finally understood what it was. It was pain. A deep-seeded pain, one that grabbed your bones and jostled you until you were so numb you couldn't feel the tears falling down your face.

"This isn't real," Mista repeated and dabbed his face. He _was _crying. "This has to be a stand, or Requiem, or a cruel joke, or _something."_

Fugo sighed. "You were always bad at explaining things."

That pain in the base of his skull morphed again—frustration.

"You guys aren't really here!" Mista insisted and flailed his hands around. "Giorno—Giorno's not here."

"Giorno?" Bucciarati cocked an eyebrow.

_Just give up, _Mista thought. _Play along. _

_I've got something left._

But if he closed his eyes, he could see Giorno, and Mista knew. He knew what he had to do.

He slipped his gun out of his belt, cocked the hammer, and aimed it at Bucciarati.

"You're not real," he whispered. "You're gone."

A wispy smile passed Bucciarati's lips, and the burning in Mista's eyes intensified. Mista almost pulled the trigger when a finger brushed his shoulder, but he looked up and saw Fugo's clear, understanding eyes. Fugo said nothing. He simply nodded, dragged his hand away, and walked toward the door.

Mista's grip on the gun shook when Abbacchio got to his feet. He lifted the headphones from his ears and carefully placed it on the table next to the remains of the cake. He, too, said nothing—he just smiled his rare smile, turned on his heel, and left.

Mista couldn't feel his finger on the trigger anymore. Narancia hopped up and patted him on the shoulder, and Mista had to choke down a sob. He grinned in his Narancia-way, his eyes closed and both rows of teeth showing before he ran out of the restaurant.

Then there was just Bucciarati, and Mista couldn't handle it anymore. He dropped his arm, and his gun slapped heavily against the wooden table. Bucciarati carefully pushed himself into a standing position, and he looked down at Mista with a softness in his eyes.

"It's all right," Bucciarati said with the same softness. "It's all right to cry. We'll always be with you."

Mista wanted to sob openly; to grab _his _capo by the front of his suit and beg him to stay.

_And I'm not giving in. _

But instead, Mista just watched him turn and walk out the door, into the bright, white light his other friends disappeared into. It was destiny.

The illusion didn't disappear. Mista still remained in the restaurant; the icing still melted on the cake; the silence still echoed deafeningly.

"That didn't break the stand?" He looked around, confused and broken. He searched for Giorno, but he wasn't there, and he didn't appear, didn't scream his name.

"Giorno?" he called hopefully, but the echo of his own voice greeted him.

Mista wanted to scream. Maybe he could follow his friends into the white abyss. Maybe he could restart this memory, let it play over and over again, so he never had to watch them leave. But his mind kept hiccupping on the maybes, and he forced his mind to focus on _Giorno, Giorno, Giorno. _

_I will not let them win. _

He gripped his pistol tightly. His fingernails dug into the grip.

"I won't go down this easily," he warned to whatever God or stand made this illusion and did the only thing his simple mind comprehended to do.

He put his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.

Libeccio disappeared into a pulse of white. The ringing returned, louder this time, and Mista felt the air being dragged breath by breath from his body.

"_Mista!"_

_I won't stop till the end. _

Then it all came rushing back—the beach first, with its white-capped waves beating into the shoreline. The sky came second and the aquamarine color with icing of white made Mista's head spin as much as the sudden cry of gulls again.

He sucked in a large breath of oxygen and sand alike, and he released it back in a heavy series of coughs.

The feeling of touch came last, with the warmth of a body pressed against his finally stirred him from his dream.

"Mista," Giorno breathed. "Are you okay...?"

Little pieces of information clicked together, piece by piece. They had traveled to the beach, a break from the heavy hand life had dealt them. They had been alone until another person had shown up—a stand user—then he slept, slept and experienced his horrible dream.

"Of course," Mista mumbled. "Takes a lot more… to take me out…"

Giorno smiled faintly, but his eyes betrayed his fear and his worry. "Yeah…" he agreed softly.

This was a reality. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. This was how things _were_.

And for a moment, Mista felt not one hand on his back, but five. Mista pulled his gun out and cocked the hammer back with his thumb.

"Let's kick some ass," Mista said. "I have a bone to pick with that stand user."

Giorno's lips quirked into another smile, but this one was more natural, more genuine, more _Giorno._

"Yeah," Giorno agreed and helped Mista to his feet.

The others were gone, Mista couldn't change that. He could only hope that one day, they all could meet again, and share another table at Libeccio —but this time, with all of them, with Mista and Bucciarati and Fugo and Narancia and Abbacchio and Trish and Giorno. _The way things will be. _

_So we ain't gonna lie, life's tough. Tryna get by, life's rough. Try to do it right, it's not enough. Even though you try you still mess up, but I'm still gonna fight for what I love._

"We'll always be with you," Bucciarati's voice echoed

_Still gonna die for what I love._

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**If you'd like me to flesh this out into a longer, more plot-driven fanfiction, let me know. **

**The lyrics are from the song Destiny by Neffex. I just finished part 5, and I'm amazed by how great of an anime it was. Mista was one of my many favorites, and I had to write a piece about him, no matter what it was. **

**Soul Spirit**


End file.
